


Worth It

by saltandbyrne



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Angsty Schmoop, Barebacking, Community: homebrewbingo, Frottage, High School, M/M, Oral Sex, Panties, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Sex, Rimming, Sibling Incest, Underage Character, Underage Sex, Weecest, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-15
Updated: 2012-10-15
Packaged: 2017-11-16 09:20:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltandbyrne/pseuds/saltandbyrne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Turns out the only thing more uncomfortable than sitting through class with a half-woody and a pair of panties wedged up your ass is doing it while your panties are soaking wet from your brother's mouth.  </p><p>(Sam is 14).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worth It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [verucasalt123](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=verucasalt123).



> Written for my darling verucasalt123 to kick off the countdown to her joyous nativity. Because nothing says "Happy Birthday" like filthy weecest.

 Sam Winchester knows a lot more than most 14-year-olds. He can field strip and reassemble a 9mm in 15 seconds (Dean had timed him). He knows two exorcisms by heart and he can pick a lock with his eyes closed.

 

Sam also knows that he likes some pretty freaky shit. Maybe it was wrong that he knew exactly where his prostate was, that he knew he got a serious case of grabby-hands whenever Dean started deep-throating his dick, that he thought the best part about sparring practice was getting to cream himself while Dean threw him around, but that was just Sam's life.

 

Sam knew more about sex than most adults, and he was into some stuff that would make a porn star blush.

 

But the panties? That was all Dean.

 

Sam shifts in the backseat of the car, gritting his teeth as the lacy material catches on his pubes. Everything feels so _squished_ , the elastic digging into his legs while his balls make a valiant attempt to escape the blue mesh holding them captive. Even soft, Sam's dick keeps poking out the side and rubbing against the seam of his jeans. Sam was growing faster in some departments than others.

 

“What's the matter, Sam?” His dad looks at him in the rear view mirror, eyebrows drawn together in the ever-present disapproval face that Sam always seems to get these days.

 

“Nothing, just sore from practice.” Sam stills himself and catches sight of Dean in the side mirror, giving him a loaded look. “Sir,” he tacks on, trying to keep the surliness he can taste in his mouth from seeping into it.

 

Dean smiles at him, just a little bit, and Sam shifts himself on purpose this time. Sure, Sam's life basically sucked. He'd be lucky if they stayed in this town long enough for him to finish out the semester. And while knowing things like how to pick locks and kill vampires was cool, Sam would have gladly traded it in for the kind of picket-fence, apple-pie life the friends he barely had time to make complained about.

 

But Sam had one thing that no one else had. He had Dean.

 

The only reason Sam knew that sometimes a smack on the ass was all it took to tip him over the edge of orgasm, knew that getting a rim job was even better when you were riding someone's face, was Dean. Sam wasn't even sure where Dean had learned all that shit, and he wasn't really sure he wanted to know. Dean's jokes about cougars and the principal's wife didn't help.

 

“Come on, Sammy,” Dean had said, dangling a lacy blue thong from his fingers. “Wanna see what that big dick looks like stretching 'em out,” Dean had mumbled against his neck, which was totally cheating because pretty much anything sounded like a good idea while Dean was licking along his jaw like that.

 

“I'll do anything you want if you wear 'em all day.” Not like Sam would have said no anyway. Dean had done plenty of things at Sam's request, like last week when Dad had left them for three days and Sam had finally talked Dean into tying him up. It had made Dean sort of uncomfortable, at least at first. By the second time Sam had come all over himself Dean had seemed pretty on board.

 

And it's not like Dean wouldn't do whatever Sam wanted anyway, but he didn't offer it up on a platter like that very often. So here Sam is, fidgeting in his seat during second-period precalculus, watching the seconds tick by in slow motion because he seriously needs to adjust himself or something's gonna be permanently damaged.

 

He makes it to the bathroom and manages to snag the stall that actually locks. The last thing he needs is Neighborhood Jock Douche walking in while he tucks himself back into his fucking _panties_.

 

Once he's sure he doesn't have a whale-tail sticking out of the top of his jeans he goes to open the stall door, already wondering how he's going to make it through English with these fucking things on. The constant pressure on his dick makes it impossible to concentrate on anything else, even without the fact that Sam gets hard just from sitting down for too long. Every movement makes the lace catch and pull at his skin, which instantly makes him think about exactly what he's going to make Dean do to pay him back.

 

And speak of the devil... Dean's standing there when Sam swings the door open, leaning against the wall like he's waiting for a bus instead of the chance to jump his little brother.

 

“Hey, Sammy.” Dean's voice is pure sex, low and gravelly as he pushes Sam back into the stall and closes the door behind them. Sam knows that Dean wouldn't risk this unless he'd made sure the bathroom was empty beforehand. Dean generally wouldn't risk this at all, not in a podunk town like this. They'd probably get a lot more flack for the gay thing than they would the sibling incest thing.

 

But Dean had gotten that desperate look on his face the second Sam pulled the panties on this morning, a pathetic look of longing crossing his face when their Dad yelled at them to get a move on. Sam can feel himself twitch a little just knowing that Dean's been so desperate to get his hands on Sam that he'd risk exposing them like this.

 

Sam does more than twitch as Dean confidently manhandles him up against the metal wall, unbuckling Sam's belt and fly and sliding his hand down to cup over Sam's dick while they kiss. Dean grinds the heel of his palm into Sam's cock as it strains against the material, curling his fingers up to slowly roll Sam's balls where they're barely contained by the thin strip of lace.

 

“Fuck, Sammy,” Dean breathes into his ear, sliding his hand up and down just slow enough to make Sam feel every drag of the lace against his throbbing-hot skin. “So fucking hot.”

 

Dean runs his fingers down to trail a teasing circle over Sam's asshole, lace hitching against the puckered skin with every brush. Sam hadn't really seen the appeal of this before, but, fuck, he could get used to this.

 

“Does it feel good?” Dean asks him, like he always does, that being Dean's favorite question. Even if it was something Sam was clearly doing for Dean, he needed to know that it made Sam happy, that he liked it. Sam tries not to overanalyze it or worry about the psychological implications.

 

Instead he just rocks his hips to get more contact from Dean's hand, pulling Dean's head in closer with a hand on the soft spikes of his hair so he can whisper in his ear, “Yeah, feels better when you touch me.” It's both true and also what Sam knows is exactly what Dean wants to hear.

 

Dean does that thing he does, where he sort of half-growls, half-sighs Sam's name, that thing that always makes Sam's spine dissolve and start to leak out of his dick. Sam bites his knuckles to keep quiet as Dean hitches Sam's jeans down just far enough that his straining-hard cock juts out over his zipper. Dean's forehead is pressed against his, and he can feel every breath Dean takes as he looks down at Sam's dick stretching the waistband of his panties out. He palms Sam's cock and pulls it up slightly, not playing with it so much as positioning it exactly where he wants it.

 

It's not exactly a surprise when Dean sinks down to rest back on his heels, but Sam still gasps like a cheesy porn star. Dean hooks his thumbs under the frilly waistband and twists them, stretching the lace even tighter over Sam's dick while he tightens his grip on Sam's hips. He holds Sam in place as he brushes his lips over the hot line of Sam's dick, breath ghosting out hot and teasing against Sam's sensitive skin. The lack of contact is maddening and hot as fucking hell.

 

Dean runs his mouth up and down over the underside of Sam's cock, opening it just enough to let Sam feel the hot drag of his full, made-for-sucking-dick lips without giving Sam what he really wants. Sam can feel the condensation of his breath clinging to the fabric and rubbing at his skin, adding another dimension to the too-much-too-good-more-more-more chant his dick is playing on repeat.

 

Sam's glad he's already got his own fingers clenched between his teeth, because the noise he makes when Dean finally opens his mouth and slips his tongue out to run it over the hot-damp lace is surely audible in AP Bio down the hall. He can feel Dean laughing softly, that satisfied chuckle he makes to himself whenever Sam starts to come apart for him. Sam squirms and tries to get more of his dick in Dean's mouth through the evil silky barrier keeping them separated, but Dean just digs his thumbs in harder and holds Sam where he is.

 

Everyone knows Dean's good with his hands, but only Sam knows how good he is with his mouth. Sam knows that tongues don't have joints, but he's still half-convinced that Dean has an extra one in there somewhere with the way he can roll it in a million different directions, creeping up the shaft of Sam's dick just to slink back down to the base and start again.

 

Dean leaves a trail of spit behind him, heedless of the mess he's making, not like Sam's in any fit state to notice. The head of his cock is sweating out precome and screaming out to be touched, Dean's tongue skating right next to it just to disappear again and leave Sam shaking in his hands. Sam knows he could come if Dean would just lick it, just once, just suck it into his mouth and swirl his tongue into the slit the way Sam likes, fuck, he could probably do it through the goddamn panties if Dean would just-

 

“Fuck, yeah, bro, gonna smash Valley High next week.” Sam's eyes widen as he hears Neighborhood Jock Douche #1 come crashing into the bathroom, small posse of lesser douches trailing him and audibly fist-bumping each other. This is all Sam fucking needs.

 

Dean's one step ahead of all of them, though, striking up from his crouch on the floor and taking Sam right with him. He holds Sam pinned against the wall, hands digging into Sam's butt as he wraps his legs around Dean's waist. It's a position they've had plenty of practice with, although Dean's cock is generally inside Sam while they do this, not trying to make a break for freedom from his tight jeans to french-kiss Sam's dick through a pair of soaking-wet panties.

 

To anyone walking by, one innocuous set of booted feet would appear to be occupying the stall. Sam can hear himself breathing, hot and heavy and freaked out and frustrated because Dean holding him up against a wall isn't doing anything to get his dick down. Dean's hand clapped over his mouth is the only thing keeping him from whimpering out loud, jocks and all.

 

And Dean is _not_ helping either, fucking jerk, swiveling his hips to grind into Sam while he smirks. The meaningless bravado of the varsity ass-hats is replaced with the hot, sweet whisper of Dean's tongue on his ear, nibbling at his earlobe and making him really happy that Dean's strong enough to hold him up because Sam is shaking too much to do anything but hold on.

 

They leave amidst the same clamor they entered with, herd-mind chorus of “dudebrofuckyeah” slowly dying down as they shuffle out. Dean waits ten heartbeats before he lets Sam down, tucking Sam's spit-soaked thong back into his jeans while Sam pants for breath and tries to get his words back so he can tell Dean to suck his dick right the fuck now.

 

“I'll get you later, baby boy,” Dean says with way more calm than he should be allowed to have as he buckles Sam's belt for him and gives him a pat on the butt. Sam knows it shouldn't make him ache for Dean's touch, but it's the same way Dean's gotten him dressed since he was a kid and it's all so tangled up with how much they need each other, how Dean takes care of him even in the ways he's not supposed to know about. All he can do is try to glare at Dean as he winks at Sam and ducks out of the stall.

 

Sam sighs and waits another two minutes, trying to will his dick into submission and half-succeeding. He trudges off to English, resigned to getting lectured for his lateness.

 

Turns out the only thing more uncomfortable than sitting through class with a half-woody and a pair of panties wedged up your ass is doing it while your panties are soaking wet from your brother's mouth. Sam's next three classes are a miserable blur. He's contemplating taking them off, or at least jerking off, as he makes his way through the sea of students flooding into the cafeteria.

 

“C'mere.” Sam jumps in surprise as Dean's hand lands on his shoulder, pulling him apart from the wave of bodies and into a supply closet. The chain of the overhead lightbulb is still swinging back and forth as Dean wedges him up against a floor-to-ceiling shelf full of gritty brown paper towels.

 

“Told you I'd get you later,” Dean kisses into his mouth, tugging Sam's jeans down and sinking to his knees. It's a repeat performance of the bathroom, although Dean is apparently convinced that the supply closet is sound-proofed with the way he slurps and moans against Sam's lace-caged dick. Sam certainly isn't going to stop him.

 

“So fucking hot, Sammy,” or something very close to it gets mumbled out against his balls, where Dean manages to slip his tongue behind the thin strip of material and light a brand new set of sparks up Sam's spine. They're still popping and fizzling as Dean licks a slow stripe up the bottom of Sam's dick, looking up to catch Sam's eyes with a face that means nothing but trouble as he tilts his head and sucks the head of Sam's dick into his mouth.

 

He can't get much of it in with the little panties holding Sam's dick back, but Sam's been on edge since 7:15 this morning and it's more than enough right now. Dean's pushing out more spit than he's swallowing, running slow and wet to trickle down Sam's dick and coat his balls. Each suck of Dean's lips echoes off the walls and kicks back into Sam's chest, his stomach jerking with each wet smack Dean makes until _fuck_ , “Dean, Dean, m'gonna, you shhgggnnnhhhh...”

 

Sam's perfectly sensible suggestion that Dean should take Sam's cock out of his goddamn panties before he comes gets lost somewhere between his brain and his dick. His dick thinks coming in his tight little thong is a fantastic fucking idea, twitching against the material and spilling out through the meshed pattern into Dean's waiting, sucking, hot and perfect mouth. Dean does that thing he does where he sort of half-growls half-gargles Sam's jizz and it's totally not as gross as it sounds.

 

As his cock spurts out the last of it, Sam feels Dean's tongue worming its way into the tiny holes of the lace and licking everything he can get to, pulling his tongue back just to seal his lips and _suck_. Sam's crotch is a mess of spit and spunk and lace. Sam and his dick will regret this later while they're stuck together like Winchester-flavored krazy glue during sixth-period Spanish, but right now Sam's not totally sure how any of this could be a bad idea.

 

Sam's hands are gripped into the slatted metal bars of the supply shelves tight enough to leave grooves on his palms, and he's happy for the hand-holds as Dean stands back up, pressing in close to him and kissing the taste right back into Sam's mouth. Sam moans loud enough to make him pray that Dean was right about the sound-proofing, opening his mouth and licking hungrily at Dean's salty lips.

 

They're both into some pretty freaky shit, it's true, but this, the jizz snowballed back into his mouth? That's all Sam. It's just like Dean to tack some little Sam-thing right onto the end of his own panty-fetish moment.

 

Dean is having a moment, though, his hips rocking against Sam like they've got a mind of their own. Sam can feel Dean's cock pressing against his leg, and he manages to free a hand from his death-grip on the shelves to reach down and cup it in his palm. They have a lot of rules in their lives, but the most important one is reciprocity.

 

“C'mon, Sammy, just suck it quick,” Dean says breathlessly, fumbling with his belt, “won't take long, promise.” Sam just brings his other hand down to brush Dean away and open his brother's jeans on his own, looking up through his hair with a lop-sided, goofy grin. And maybe Sam puts it on a little, because he knows how Dean likes it when he's all giggly and limp after he blows his load. Dean likes to come last for a reason.

 

Sam leans in for one last kiss as he pulls Dean's cock out through the fly of his boxers. He gives it a few good strokes, the skin of it running soft and hot under his fingers. There's a nice wet spot on Dean's boxers, not that Sam ever doubted Dean was enjoying himself, but he never minds seeing some liquid proof.

 

Keeping the grin on his face and his eyes only half-open, Sam goes to his knees and licks his lips, looking up at Dean slyly and waiting with his lips parted. Sam knew a lot of things, and he knew that he loved sucking Dean's cock. But sometimes, all he really wanted was to hang on and let Dean fuck his face. It was one of those things that made Dean uncomfortable sometimes, just like anything where they got rough and Sam went fucking crazy it was so hot.

 

But right now? Dean's so hopped-up and ready to blow he'll do anything Sam wants, qualms long-forgotten as he runs his hands into Sam's “never gonna let you cut it” hair and gets a good grip. Always a man of his word, Dean doesn't take long, getting a handful of good thrusts into Sam's mouth before he speeds up and starts to flex his hand in Sam's hair, which is Dean for “I'm gonna come down your throat in 3, 2, 1...”

 

Sam moans as Dean pulls back slightly and cups a hand under Sam's chin, holding his mouth in place as Dean floods hot and wet over his tongue. Sam swallows all of it, wincing slightly at the bitterness – Dean had downed a few too many beers last night – but not really minding it, not when Dean looks down at him with that smile on his face, bare lightbulb glowing behind his hair like a dime-store halo.

 

“Was I too-” Sam cuts off what Dean was about to say because he's already heard it too many times, standing up and rolling his eyes as he kisses his brother. This whole “was I too rough” shit was seriously fucking annoying sometimes.

 

“You were perfect,” Sam says, tucking himself back into his jeans and wrinkling his nose at the sticky mess on his junk. “And you really fucking owe me for this.”

 

“Anything you want, Sammy,” Dean smiles broadly at him, smug look of satisfaction displacing any lingering guilt. Good.

 

“Oh, I know.” Sam straightens his shirt and slings his backpack over his shoulder while Dean gets his pants buckled. “And I know exactly what you're gonna do.” Sam tries his best to mimic Dean's smug face as he turns and leaves the supply closet, feeling a little satisfied as Dean gapes at him before the door closes on him.

 

The rest of the day would be awful even if Sam were wearing brand-new, breathable cotton boxers. Sam's already covered most of the material in his classes, and it was easy the first time around. This school seems to be completely bereft of the kind of nerds and goth girls that normally talk to him, so he doesn't even have anyone to pass notes to. The fact that he's pretty sure he's gonna be waxing off a swath of his pubes when he finally rips his spunk-stiff panties off is only the icing on the cake.

 

Dean doesn't get a chance to lay a hand on him before they get out of school, which is probably for the best. Sam's whole situation down there is starting to chafe.

 

“Gotta keep 'em on till we go to bed, Sammy,” Dean comes up behind him at their appointed waiting-for-Dad spot by the thick hedge at the end of the block. Sam knows he's fidgeting but there's just no position that doesn't snag on something sensitive, and Dean talking about going to bed isn't helping. Now all Sam can think about is how good it'll feel when his gloriously-free dick can smack up against his stomach while Dean fucks him.

 

Fucker totally knows it, too, doing that thing he does where he acts like he's getting something out of Sam's backpack so he can slip his other hand down the back of Sam's pants, trailing his finger over the strip of lace that's currently digging into the crack of Sam's ass like a bitch. Their dad is late, as usual, so there's no one around to see when Dean leans in to whisper in Sam's ear.

 

“You let me fuck you while you wear 'em, I'll do anything you want for a week,” Dean rasps out, pressing the pad of his finger right over Sam's hole. “A whole week, Sammy, promise.” Sam shivers, both at the promise and the way his traitorous little slut of an asshole starts reflexively shuddering at just the hint of Dean's finger. Sam knew a lot of things about his body, but the fact he'd learned quickest was how much he loved having any part of Dean in his ass. Sam could switch-hit and sure, sometimes it was fucking awesome to see Dean bent over in front of him, but most days Sam sat in class and day-dreamed about Dean's tongue/fingers/cock/purloined sex-toy stash getting intimate with his out-box. “Just push 'em to the side and sink my-”

 

The rumble of the Impala's engine is hard-wired to both of their brains, going off like a giant neon “Hands-off” sign as their dad pulls up and they pull themselves together. They drive home in silence, Skynyrd warbling out of the radio while Sam tries not to shift in his seat. He can tell Dean's tense just by the set of his shoulders, hunched forward in his leather jacket as they idle at the railroad crossing. Sam's snarky teenage heart had almost exploded with irony when he realized their Dad had rented a place that was literally on the wrong side of the tracks. At least it was small enough that he “had” to share a bedroom with Dean.

 

Sam finishes his homework in 20 minutes, including the cruel irony of writing his third essay on To Kill a Mockingbird. He contemplates rubbing one out in the bathroom, but he knows it won't do much to take the edge off. He just peels his panties off his skin, wincing as a few hairs get sacrificed for a week of Dean at his beck and call.

 

Dean busies himself around the house, not even bothering to pretend he does homework any more. Dad just sits and watches TV while he nurses four fingers of Beam. He's been in one of his funks for the past week, tearing through the papers and calling every hunter he knows. Sam might hate hunting, but at least his dad had a sort of righteous anger to him when he was chasing something. When he was stuck in the house like this he was just fucking sad. Sam feels like an awful person for it, but he wishes his dad would just go out on a bender and leave him alone with Dean.

 

Dean's Hamburger Helper dinner is better than Dean's tuna casserole dinner and a million times better than Dad's ramen noodles, so Sam tucks in and polishes off the whole bowl with Dean's help. Sam is guiltily relieved that their dad doesn't join them, especially when Dean plays footsie with him under the dinged-up formica table that occupies the small alcove off the kitchen.

 

Dishes are Sam's job, but Dean helps him carry them to the sink and stands there while Sam pours some no-name green soap onto the sponge. Sam knows Dad can't see them, but he still feels himself blush as Dean runs his hand over the small of Sam's back. Sam scrubs at the cheese-coated pot as Dean brushes his fingers back and forth, slowly working Sam's t-shirt up in little folds.

 

Sam's never kept track of just how many times he can get hard in one day, but today would definitely register in the upper limits. The dishes are going to have some missed spots if Dean keeps tugging on the back of Sam's panties like that. Dean hooks his finger into the T of elastic and pulls it up, jostling Sam's balls and running the fabric over his hole. Sam finds himself praying that Dad'll be out cold sooner rather than later.

 

While Sam doubts they have a guardian angel, someone wants the Winchesters to get laid tonight. By the time they finish the dishes and wipe the counters down, Dad's out cold with the newspaper covering his chest like a blanket.

 

Dean carefully tip-toes over to him to administer the time-honored poke test. If Dad can sleep through a poke to the shoulder, he can sleep through some muffled thumps and thuds from his sons' bedroom. Dean turns back to Sam with a grin on his face that makes Sam's never-really-soft dick spring up to full attention. Sam hates to use the word scamper, but that's pretty much what he does down the hall with Dean close at his heels, flexing their fists to keep from touching each other until they're behind the relative safety of their flimsy bedroom door.

 

Their bedroom is sparse and cramped at the same time, duffels spilling over onto the floor to create a sort of plaid-denim-Playboy rug. They trip over Sam's soccer cleats and Dean's jean jacket on the way to Sam's bed, Sam's knees backing up against the mended flannel sheets Dean had picked up at the local Salvation Army. He lands on his back with a soft “Unf,” just to have Dean haul him back up to scrabble at his pants like they're hurting Sam. He pulls Sam's belt off with a soft whoosh, throwing it aside to land on the might-be-clean-but-probably-dirty clothes pile, which Sam adds his own t-shirt to with a careless toss.

 

Dean's knees and Sam's jeans hit the floor for the second time today, but Dean's hands on his hips aren't pulling him closer this time. They're spinning him around, until he's facing the bed and Dean's hand on the small of his back pushes him to bend over. Like Sam needs to be told what to do. He throws Dean a look over his shoulder and crawls onto the bed, sinking to his elbows and spreading his legs low and wide until he knows his ass looks like a lace-covered welcome mat for Dean's mouth.

 

Sam knows that in some alternate universe, where he's a normal person who doesn't kill werewolves or fuck his brother, this would be horrifying, humiliating even, being all bent over with his ass high in the air, little blue panties holding his leaking-hard cock captive against his stomach. His jeans are still tangled around his ankles, mismatched socks poking out of the bottom and brushing up against Dean's shoulders. He knows exactly what he looks like, fuck, he's seen Dean like this plenty of times to know what “needy little slut” looks like. And maybe alternate-universe-Sam would feel uncomfortable with that, would feel embarrassed that the only thing keeping him from begging Dean to eat his ass is their father in the next room.

 

But Sam just arches his back and spreads his legs that much wider, daring to whisper a soft, “Dean, pleeeeeeeeease,” as he abuses the puppy-dog face. Dean just butts his nose against Sam's balls, fucking tease, before he digs his big, callused fingers into either side of Sam's ass and pulls gently.

 

There's pretty much nothing that Sam likes more than this, Dean's mouth breathing hot against his skin as his tongue traces a slow trail up the crack of his ass. His skin gets all tingly and his cock starts to throb, all of it newly intensified by the tight little panties pressing against his dick. Dean runs his tongue over the strip of lace just to curl it under and _pull_ , jesus, squeezing Sam's balls and making him ball his fists into the sheets. Dean flicks his tongue over the rim of Sam's hole a few times, catching the panties with his thumb to pull them aside.

 

Sam has to smush his face into the bed and take a mouthful of flannel to keep himself quiet when Dean finally points his tongue and presses it inside, doing that thing he does where he rolls his tongue and circles it around the outside at the same time. Dean can do this for hours, do it until Sam can't speak or think or remember what purpose his spine serves, but tonight he's hurrying, pressing a finger in beside his tongue sooner than he usually does.

 

The sheets stick to his tongue and taste like cardboard, but it's still better than waking the entire neighborhood when Dean slips a second finger in, splaying them open just to dart his tongue into the space between. Sam defies anyone not to moan like a goddamn whore when Dean does that, eighty gazillion nerve endings in Sam's sensitive hole lighting up like trip-wired shocks that singe his skin and make his stomach clench. It feels so fucking good, and _fuck_ , this is all Sam needs, everything else in his life can suck as long as there's this. Sam doesn't even need the picket fence or the dog named Bones or the sober, married, living parents that he dreams about, all he needs is enough food to survive and a roof over his head and Dean, all of his attention washing over Sam and blacking out all the bad parts.

 

Then Dean curls his fingers forward into that _spot_ , that fucking revelation hidden inside him just for Dean to find, tap-tap-tapping at it firm and fast and just right until Sam has to grit his teeth into the sheets to keep himself from screaming when he comes in his panties for the second time today. Sam knows he's mumbling out a bunch of shit, with a heavy dose of “Love you, Dean” mixed in because sometimes Sam is a huge girl like that.

 

But Dean never mentions it, just like Sam never mentions it when Dean gets something in his eye when he's pressed on top of Sam and coming in his ass. It's part of the very short list of things that they never tease each other about, not ever.

 

Sam's still coming when Dean crawls up behind him and presses the head of his slicked-up cock against Sam's shuddering hole, sinking in to savor the last milking clenches of his muscles and bottom out while Sam's all boneless and tingly. It's always Dean's favorite way to do it.

 

“Fuck, Sammy, feel that?” Dean gives the panties, pushed off to the side of his hole while Dean slowly rocks into him, a soft pull, dragging the fabric to catch against both their balls where they're piled on top of each other. Sam bites his lip and turns to look back at Dean, wants to see his face and the way he's smiling and how much he's enjoying this, and sometimes this is the best part, better than the sex and the orgasms, just getting to see Dean looks so happy and relaxed. Sam knows it's fucked up, that the only time Dean looks like a kid, carefree and at ease, is when he's buried in his baby brother's ass, but Sam learned a long time ago to take it where he can get it.

 

Each thrust of Dean's hips drags his cock over Sam's overloaded sweet spot, pleasure-pain sparks shooting through him like tinfoil on his teeth. His cock is half-hard again, refraction being a concept Sam's body isn't quite acquainted with yet. It's almost too much when Dean bends down over him, pressing his chest to Sam's back and reaching around to cup his dick through the dripping-wet panties plastered to his skin, too much but also deeply thrilling. Dean's fucking into him faster now, breath skating out in jagged puffs over Sam's neck, kneading at Sam's dick until his hand is sticky-wet with Sam's come.

 

Dean starts breathing in short little huffs and losing his rhythm as he pounds into Sam, and Sam can read him like a book, knows he's close because he knows every tell Dean has. This is one of the only parts of Sam's life that isn't clouded with secrets, where he knows exactly what he's doing and what's expected of him. He just relaxes and hikes his hips back as far as he can, letting Dean deep inside him as Dean presses his nose into the Dean-shaped spot at the nape of Sam's neck and shoots his load with a muffled groan.

 

Neither of them likes the slip-out, losing that connection between them, so they both roll over into the spooning position that lets Dean stay inside him as long as possible. Dean just kisses at the back of his neck and brushes his fingers over Sam's nipples, running them down every few seconds to trace over the panties and let out a long sigh. Dean won't say thank you, but he means it.

 

Eventually Dean softens out, rolling over onto his back and giving the waistband of Sam's panties one final tug. Sam smirks and stands up, baring his teeth a little as he feels Dean's come seep out of him, soaking into his panties and slip-sliding tacky-slow down his thighs. Dean watches him like he's made of pie as he slowly peels them off, balling them up in one hand and stroking himself with the other.

 

“Wore 'em all day, baby boy,” Dean says, smiling brightly and stretching. Sam keeps his face sweet and guileless as he crawls back on the bed, straddling Dean's waist and settling down to give himself a few good strokes.

 

“Uh-huh,” Sam nods, blinking his eyes like Bambi while he twists his wrist over the head of his cock. “So now you're mine for a week, huh?”

 

“Whatever you want, Sammy.” Dean licks his lips and quirks an eyebrow at him. “Got anything in mind?”

 

Sam keeps stroking his cock, tilting his head at Dean like he's thinking of something. “Well, first I'm gonna jerk off on your face.”

 

Dean narrows his eyes in mock-challenge. “Sure drive a hard bargain, Sammy,” he drawls, bringing his arms up to cradle his head and smile. Sam knows that Dean loves that, seeing Sam play with himself and put on a show just for Dean.

 

“And I'm gonna do the talking.” Sam feels something like triumph as Dean's eyes widen in surprise, because it's rare that he's the one to surprise Dean. But that look of shock is totally genuine as Sam brings his other hand around and stuffs the balled-up panties right into Dean's mouth.

 

It's gonna be a good week.


End file.
